


let the signs lead the way

by Wintertree



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types
Genre: Bittersweet Ending, Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Dragon Age: Origins - Leliana's Song DLC, M/M, Pre-Canon, Treat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-07
Updated: 2020-09-07
Packaged: 2021-03-06 18:27:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,079
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26313400
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wintertree/pseuds/Wintertree
Summary: For the first hour after meeting Tug, Sketch valiantly tries not to stare at him.Fenedhis,he’s such a fucking rube. It’s not that he’s never seen a dwarf before— okay yeah, it’s that he’s never met a dwarf before.five snapshots of sketch and tug, set before Leliana's Song.
Relationships: Sketch/Tug (Dragon Age)
Comments: 3
Kudos: 7
Collections: Black Emporium 2020





	let the signs lead the way

**Author's Note:**

  * For [venndaai](https://archiveofourown.org/users/venndaai/gifts).



> whew this was an interesting one to write! I had to totally refresh my memory on the dlc. one of those pairings I never though i'd write if not for a great prompt!!
> 
> title pulled from a lyric in "smile" by jungle. and a big thank you to midnightprelude for the beta :)

**i.**

For the first hour after meeting Tug, Sketch valiantly tries not to stare at him. _Fenedhis,_ he’s such a fucking rube.

It’s not that he’s never seen a dwarf before— okay yeah, it’s that he’s never met a dwarf before, other than quick snippets of sidelong looks in taverns. When was he _supposed_ to talk to one? Before or after hiding in Orlesian ports? He kept well clear of Carta influence, and it’s not like dwarves love to be on boats, out in the ocean with no Stone below and only dizzyingly open sky above. 

Or is that a stereotype? Is that rude?

The dwarf raises an eyebrow at him when Marjolaine slinks off to the corner to meet with her contact. Sketch’s done the odd job or two for her so far, and he must have done a good enough job that she’s introducing him into her regular crew.

For now, it’s just the two of them, pretending to play cards and keeping Marjolaine in their sight-lines while the third person in the crew, a plain faced human Marcher, keeps watch from an alcove above. Sketch valiantly tries not to touch the sticky top of the table.

Sketch coughs awkwardly, but doesn’t attempt to wet his throat with his tankard of piss-cheap ale. “So is ‘Tug’ a family name?”

“Hm, no,” Tug says, petting his beard like a wizened sage before lightly pulling on the two little braids framing his jaw. He waggles his eyebrows. “A helpful reminder to barmaids when I’m otherwise occupied.”

Sketch tries not to grimace. “Cute.” He folds his hand of cards and places another cheap bet for the next round. He’s too focused on watching Marjolaine’s back to catch Tug cheating, which he must be. No earthly way he’d be drawing such shit cards otherwise.

“I know, but it’s nice to hear it.” He pouts as he deals another hand. “Otherwise I got all dolled up for nothing.”

Maker’s breath and balls, what the hell is he supposed to with only two Serpents and no matches? He’s a mage, not a thief. If they were on the road he’d just cast a fireball on the cards and be done with Wicked Grace entirely. “Ah yes, and do I detect a faint scent of lilac hair oil?” he says offhand, realizing he’s been too quiet for too long.

Tug chuckles. “Bergamot, actually. It makes me feel confident.”

“Perhaps on the head note.” Sketch leans into the bit, using his cards to pretend to waft air. The dwarf’s actually got quite a nice laugh, deep and rumbly. And it’s not like it matters if Tug sees his hand anyways. “But the base note just _screams_ vanilla.”

“Ahh, so you’re the new fancy toy!” He wryly shakes his head. “Too bad.”

Sketch can feel his eyes bug out. “What does _that_ mean.”

“Marjolaine.” The dwarf lazily throws down a winning trio of Angels, but Sketch’s collar is too prickly and distracting for him to fully care. “She’s got three types of people she likes to work with. Dependable, disposable, delectable.” Tug wrinkles his nose and shuffles the deck. “Ack, forget I said that. I need to think of a better ‘d’ word. Don’t get me wrong, you’re pretty—,” Sketch ignores the heat creeping up well past his collar now, “—but Charley is fucking dull and I was hoping you’d liven things up a little.”

Sketch flits his eye to Charley up in the alcove and tries not to flush. He seemed nice enough when they met and shook hands at the beginning of the night, but— yeah he doesn’t exactly have the world’s most flavorful personality.

“Well, I’m not a _toy,_ thank you,” Sketch says a touch waspishly. Tug must feel a little sorry, because the next hand he deals is actually not too shabby. “I’m wanted for more than my body. I have many selective and rare talents.”

“Such as perfumes. Or is it ‘perfumery’?” 

“This _is_ Orlais, you have to be rather rough around the edges to not pick up a thing or two.” Tug shrugs in response, a little smile tugging on his lips as if to say _I happen to be a little rough._ “And I, well. Mean that a bit literally.” Sketch rubs the back of his neck, self-conscious. “Did an apothecary’s smuggling route for a couple months. Broke too many crates.” 

Tug laughs again, which is nice, again. Sketch belatedly realizes that’s what he was trying to do. “So neither dependable _nor_ delectable.” 

“Or I’m just _that_ good at the Game. Our base was downwind of the fish market, and I always accidentally dropped the strongest and least cloying vials. Not really sure what was in it.” Sketch shrugs, pushing past the fact he really _is_ looking like a rube in front of a near stranger. Whatever, _Sketch_ isn’t the one who decided to hang his first impression on a crass joke. “I liked the spicier ones.”

Tug opens his mouth to crack a joke, mouth curling up, but Sketch is violently jerked out of his chair, tipping backwards and sideways. With a thud, a bolt buries in the top of the table where Sketch’s head should have been, splinting the cheap wood. Tug had kicked Sketch’s chair out from under the table faster— and had done so faster than Sketch thought possible unaided by magic.

Sketch curses under his breath and lunges forward off the ground so he’s back within arm’s length of Tug, grabbing his staff from where it was hidden under the table. The dwarf widens his eyes in surprise, but pulls his sword out in a wide arc to keep from accidentally stabbing him. Using the staff as a focal point, Sketch casts a thick barrier between one breath in and one breath out. 

Diffused blue light rests over the two of them like soap on a clear stream, glossy and shifting. A second and third crossbow bolts skitters off the barrier harmlessly. If they weren’t in the middle of a fight, Sketch would feel quite smug over his magical prowess, but they _are_ and Sketch is who he is, terrified shitless and sweating a bucket.

Sketch uses a mind blast to clear out the tavern patrons as Marjolaine lets out her tinkling bell of a laugh as she slits the throat of her contact. She twirls her way toward the front, taking advantage of the path Sketch gave her.

Poor Charley the Marcher tries to stumble down the stairs, eyes wide and panicked. There’s— there’s a bolt sticking out of his neck. A pair of bards descends to the main floor, lightning quick and moving together in a harmony that suggests a long partnership. 

With a roar, Tug charges. The pair is quick, but Tug clips them with his shield, and even from a couple yards away Sketch can hear the sickening crunch of bone and the enemy bard’s sharp intake of breath. Tug's fast, but there’s a power to each strike that’s undeniable. Even as one against two, the dwarf holds his own.

“Let’s go!” Marjolaine calls, halfway toward the door, the same time Tug fucking _rolls_ in the opposite direction and yells, “Cover me!”

Sketch wants to scream, or cry, or most of all yank his hair out in sheer anxiety, but he needs both his hands to cast a fire mine behind the bards and a block of ice in front to tip them backward. 

Tug grabs the Marcher and drags him out of the door, Sketch hot on his heels. He feels winded, sweat stinging his eyes, but holds his staff up dramatically as he exits. Offensive spells greedily eat up his reserves fast, but not even the pissed-off barkeep would want to risk tussling with a mage that just took out two assassins. 

Charley must be a stone heavier and three head above the dwarf, but he doesn’t stumble under the weight. Marjolaine lead them down alleys, weaving quickly and quietly in case those bards have any friends.

“Marjolaine,” Sketch warns in a whisper. Blood is flowing thick from the man’s throat, and the running is only making it pump faster. 

Clucking her tongue impatiently, Marjolaine ducks behind a stall and slips them into an abandoned storefront, making quick work of the lock. It’s musty and stale, but thankfully no one else is squatting in the space. It’s also quite dark, but a street lantern casts enough of a glow into the space that his elf night-sight makes up for the rest.

Sketch chugs a minor potion, nothing strong enough to make a difference to the human, but helps steady his panting and alleviates a stitch in his side from running. The dwarf drags the man up on a sturdy counter, thankfully low enough that it’s not uncomfortably tall for either of them.

“Hold him, tight,” Sketch instructs Tug, slathering a poultice around the bolt, still lodged in the man’s throat. It’s not the strongest one Sketch has in his pack, but too thick and he won’t have the visibility to do the delicate healing that needs to be done. Charley’s eyes are wild, almost all whites, and he strains uncontrollably against Tug holding him still. Sketch tries to flash a calming smile to the man, hoping his ugly mug isn’t the last thing the poor bastard sees. “You’ll be fine.” Sketch taps two fingers lightly on behind the man’s ear with a concentrated blast of magic, knocking him out cold.

He takes the opportunity to take a step away, stretching his back and hands with a shuddering sigh. Marjolaine’s face is pinched, and she keeps stealing glances at the door like she’s weighing her odds. He’s inclined to agree with whatever calculation she’s mentally running. The plan went sideways, but it’s salvageable if she doubles back to see who comes sniffing at the commotion of the tavern. Marjolaine’s not exactly the most forthcoming of shem, but she runs clean missions and operates with multiple contingencies. She should go. But Sketch needs an extra pair of hands to help him.

“We need to,” Sketch starts, turning to check on Tug but freezing when they make eye contact. He tries not to let his shock show baldly on his face. The way that Tug risked his life, turning his back on the enemy, to rescue what’s _plainly_ obvious to all four of them is a lost cause, Sketch expects to see more emotion. 

Instead, Tug is dry-eyed and collected, calm. He’s holding Charley tightly down, but there’s not an abundance of tension in his body. The dwarf looks reserved, like he knows that Sketch is going to say _There’s just too much blood,_ or _Even if he lives tonight he’ll likely be taken by infection,_ or even _On a good day in a clean clinic with a full night’s rest, I’ve got as good of a chance as saving him as I would praying to the Nug King for a miracle._ Which are all frankly resting on the tip of his tongue.

Tug raises an eyebrow at him. 

Sketch finishes his minor boosting potion, exhausting his knowledge of Elvhen words to mumble a litany of colorful curses under his breath. “Tug and I need until sunrise, we’ll meet you at the original meet-up spot one way or another.”

She flashes them a warm smile and exits, barely giving any indication she sees the man bleeding out on a counter. Well it’s clear that between dependable and disposable, he likely falls in the latter. Poor Charley. If he lives, maybe the scar will make him seem dashing and roguish. Or at the very least people will believe him to be mute, rather than just boring.

Tug takes a moment to rifle around the space, and sets up a couple slapped together torches before returning to the counter.

Sketch sidles up to his side and glances down at the wound. It’s bleeding, but sluggishly, slowed by the poultice. Sketch breathes in and out through his nerves, letting his hands settle over the man’s neck and delicately trying to see if any arteries are at risk of further damage before he attempts to remove the bolt. 

Through a touch of quick hysterics, Sketch wants to shake Tug by the shoulder. Figure out why he was stupid enough to risk his life over a dead-man-walking, one he openly doesn’t even seem to care for. 

But healing magic has always come easy to him, and soon Sketch is pulled into an almost meditative state as he carefully and methodically gets to work.

“I can’t believe I did it,” Sketch breathes out. He practices his finger exercises, loosening the joints. Casting can fatigue muscles, but it especially makes his knuckles ache when he drains himself this thoroughly of mana. 

Behind them, good old Charley sleeps soundly, somehow alive against all odds. The street lantern is starting to flicker, and soon watering sunlight will tip over the horizon and the two of them will scurry to the meet-up. They’ll have to return later today to collect him, but the giddy high of lack of sleep combined with the sheer rush of doing a good fucking job (and yes, Sketch did a _good_ job tonight) leaves him grinning wide enough to make his face hurt.

Tug hums. “Me neither.”

Sketch glares at him, half-hearted with exhaustion. The dwarf just laughs and squeezes his arm playfully. 

  
  


**ii.**

Sketch makes toward the inn, a none-too-shabby establishment off the southern end of Val Royeaux, but Tug stops him with a light touch to his elbow.

“Quick pit stop, elf,” Tug says, leading him back toward mid-city.

Grumbling, Sketch lets himself be taken away from the sweet siren call of eighty-count sheets and a warm bath. They’ve been working together for almost a year now, long enough that endearing quirks have become unbearable idiosyncrasies, and then looped around once again to be charming facets of a friend’s personality. It’s not that Sketch wants to be the wet blanket, the homebody to Tug’s boisterous nature. But he’s _tired_ and he was looking forward to a relaxing evening. For the past couple weeks, Sketch and Tug have been casing a Marquis’s townhouse non-stop while Marjolaine eats candied dates and listens to fair maidens on harps.

Tug laughs his deep, full-chested laugh. It’s no less gratifying now than the first time he heard it. “Harps?!”

“You would prefer a flute, wouldn’t you— you dirty old dog.” Sketch sniffs and ducks away from Tug’s playful jab.

“Can’t go wrong with a solid harmonica.” Tug twirls one of his beard braids, as if that makes him look worldly rather than deeply foolish. 

Sketch tries not to wince at a conjured image of Tug leading a one-dwarf-band. After an ale or two, Tug comes under the impression he’s a musical savant, and Sketch tries to magic himself earplugs without accidentally drunkenly exploding his own head. There were a couple touch-and-go evenings.

They fall into conversation about nothing much of value, companionable and light. Evening bell rings out, likely from a nearby Chantry, but they’re in the thick of summer and the sun is still bright and high in the sky. Sketch takes the opportunity to steal a couple sidelong glances at Tug. He looks good in the sunlight, warm and sturdy. Tug is dressed casually today, simple linen tunic with leather vambraces. 

Now that it’s finally starting to cool off, the walk is actually quite pleasant. Sketch no longer feels the _now please gods now_ pull to taking a bath to wipe the day’s muggy humidity off his skin. Maybe he should buy lighter robes. 

It’s not until the bell rings again that Sketch drags his eyes away to notice they’re practically on the steps of the Chantry. Uneasy, Sketch falls back. It’s not a large Chantry, just a local neighborhood one rather than the more influential and regal one across town. But a handful of Templars mill around the courtyard, clanking armor loud even over the Chant.

Noticing his hesitation, Tug falters to a halt and turns back with a questioning look in his eye. “You doing alright?” Sketch nods in assent, schooling his features. Embarrassing. It’s pretty easy to avoid any mentions of the Chantry when your only friend is a dwarf. “I’ve got a quick pick up around the side.”

Sketch blinks and follows Tug, the two of them looking like a perfect picture of lazy strolling. As they turn past the Chanty, Tug surreptitiously snatches a small pouch hidden between a low stone fence and a hedge.

“Did you get that from a Sister?” Sketch asks incredulously. “A smuggling Sister?”

“Yeah yeah, no need to alert the Divine. Just a bit of harmless trade, she owed me a favor.” Tug lightly hip checks him, but seeing as the dwarf is a compact mass of muscle and Sketch got regularly pushed into trash heaps as a child, he stumbles a couple steps. “Do you believe in the Maker and all that shit?”

“No.” Sketch tries to clamp down on a shiver running up his spine. Ringing steps of Templar boots echo in his mind, even now that they’ve left the building far behind. “Can’t say I do.”

“Well, here, since I dragged you with me.” Tug passes him the pouch, then pretends to pick at his vambraces as Sketch stares in confusion.

Sketch opens the pouch, breath catching in his throat. “You _didn’t.”_

Inside, there’s a delicate looking bottle of perfume decorated with an eye watering amount of gold leaf. He raises the pouch to sniff, not wanting to risk gaining the curiosity or wandering eye of the little cutpurses of Val Royeaux. 

According to the bottle, it claims to be _Chuchotement Cologne No.6,_ whatever the fuck that means, but it smells warm and spicy, just a bit smokey. Hint of cinnamon. “Tug, what is this?” Sketch can’t help the wide grin, cheeks aching. 

“If you don’t want it—”

Sketch slaps his hand away. “Rude!”

Tug smiles and Sketch has to look away in case it blinds him. “Happy one year, if you can believe it.” Sketch can’t, to be honest. This has been one of the most stable chapters in his life to date. Some of his older crews have reached out in recent months, but Sketch doesn’t think he’s likely to accept another job anytime soon. As long as Marjolaine keeps calling, Sketch will keep coming. 

“Thank you, my friend,” Sketch says, meaning it deeper and heavier than Tug could ever possibly know. 

  
  


**iii.**

About ten seconds into the girl’s song, Sketch checks her off as that third category of agent. 

She’s sweet, a small braid framing her short red hair, if also uncomfortably young looking. But her voice is melodious and bright, and Marjolaine watches her sing like a smug cat.

After the performance, Marjolaine introduces her to Sketch and Tug. It’s been just the two of them lately. For a while their little crew was joined by a rogue chevalier, but he chased a skirt to Nevarra and they haven’t heard from him since.

Leliana smiles and greets them warmly. Her accent is thick and Orlesian, but also airy in that way nobles get that separate them out from the common folk. Sketch weakly wonders where Marjolaine plucked this poor girl out from. But she shakes his hand, not hesitating in slightest, and he can’t help but feel a bit endeared. She should really go back home rather than continue her tutelage to become a bard; this life isn’t for one so kind hearted, but she seems quick-witted and good under pressure.

The gig comes and goes seamlessly, and when Leliana teaches him some extra Elvhen curse words strong enough to make hair sprout on his chin, Sketch can’t help but adore her. Light twinkles in Tug’s eyes, and Sketch elbows him to keep quiet. 

After a month or so, Leliana kills her first person on mission. According to Marjolaine, it’s not her first body, but it’s always a bit different with a new crew. She doesn’t hesitate, but her smile is wan for the remainder of the day.

“It’s just a shame,” Tug says, sitting back and letting Sketch shuffle the next hand. They’re playing Diamondback in Sketch’s room, as Sketch really was not bluffing his threat to destroy the deck if Tug ever forced him to play another hand of Wicked Grace. “She’s just a kid.”

“It’s part of the Game.” Sketch shrugs.

“I like having her around, don’t get me wrong, but she should be doing stupid stuff with people her age, not slitting a poor bastard’s throat.” Tug sighs and pulls from the deck. “She’s not exactly homeless. She doesn’t need to do this.”

Sketch tries not to let the bitterness bite at him. Other than a collection of contradictory, lurid tales, Tug doesn’t share much about his past. It doesn’t really matter, though. It’s blatant that Tug isn’t like him, that he decided to join this life as an adult. Even little Leliana is like Sketch, playing the Game not just for food or fun or for wealthy benefactors’ protection, but for control. 

Marjolaine too, although Sketch is too vaguely terrified of her and too uncomfortable under her sharp gaze to dare try to puzzle her apart. No thank you, he leaves that deathwish to Leliana. Not that Marjolaine would ever _actually_ hurt her, he doesn’t think, but she’s barely thought twice about ditching less than satisfactory agents in the past. After that man was injured the first night Sketch met Tug, whatever his name was, Marjolaine didn’t ask once after his health.

But Tug doesn’t “play.” He does his job and has fun with it, quipping and elbowing Sketch (quite firmly actually!) if he doesn’t laugh fast or hard enough. Sketch cannot think of a moment in his whole life when there hasn’t been a lyrium white target on his back, begging to strike him down. Tug could just... _leave._ There’s nothing keeping him here. He won’t, _can’t_ understand that the Game is a gift to a little bard like Leliana. Leliana could breezily return to her life of quiet comfort in a way that makes Sketch’s teeth ache, but she wouldn’t dare. Not when she could cling desperately, passionately to the Game. She has power here, in a way she never will have in her station otherwise, and in a way she will never want to give up.

And she’s been craving that power since childhood. She might have had a roof under her head growing up, something that Sketch tries not to be envious of, but they don’t have Tug’s freedom of choice. Of living a childhood to be a child, rather than constantly learning the rules to survival.

Sketch’s motivations are nowhere near that romantic. He doesn’t care about the glory or the court intrigue. As a part of this crew, Sketch gets to control his gigs—Marjolaine never forces them on a mission, even if he’s not stupid enough to believe she wouldn’t ditch him if he ever said no. He has a steady income, a steady purpose. Steady companions.

He folds his dismal hand and props his head on his other arm, suddenly tired.

Tug looks at him with worry furrowing his brow. “Is something wrong?” He reaches out to squeeze Sketch’s arm.

“No, I’m—,” he stutters, trying not to pull away like the touch burns him. “I’m fine. Bit of a headache.” He feels pinned under Tug’s concerned gaze. His eyes are warm, and Sketch is suddenly struck by how handsome he looks in the lamplight. “Think I’ll take a short walk.”

Sketch leaves, prickly hot and anxious. In the hallway he bumps into Leliana returning to her room.

Leliana looks at him, startled. “Sketch, where are you—”

“Out,” he says with a fake smile, brushing past her and into the night air. 

He doesn't even know why he’s so _uncomfortable,_ if he’s being honest. Something nags at him, pounding away in his chest.

It takes him about a mile until his legs burn and the fog starts to clear. He feels foolish, storming out of _his own room_ because he, what, was in danger of throwing himself in Tug’s arms? 

He kicks a loose pebble. It’s not that Tug is the most handsome man he’s ever met. Working with Marjolaine has opened doors to both rugged chevaliers and the most polished of gentlemen. But there’s something about Tug that just screams beautiful to him, and it seems to get stronger every day that Sketch has the opportunity to look at him. Warmth settles over him every time Tug meets his gaze and smiles, or laughs that laugh of his. Sketch can’t help obsess over the fact that Tug really, truly could leave any time he wants. 

“You, stop there!”

Ice water floods Sketch’s veins at the loud shout behind him. No good ever came from someone barking _You!_ at him, so he acts as if they’re addressing someone else and continues his quick steps.

“I said _stop!”_ the voice calls again, demanding and coarse. With horror, Sketch steals a look behind him and sees the man’s Templar armor obvious, even in the dark of night.

Sketch turns forward, but he’s cut off by a second Templar.

This town isn’t as big as Val Royeaux, a small Orlesian town close to the Ferelden border, and he must have caught their attention at some point over the past week.

“Can I help you, messeres?” he asks, trying to seem like a polite, very demure little traveller. 

He can feel the deadened aura around them, distinguishing them as Templars more blatantly than the brand on their armor. He tried to explain it to Tug once, what it feels like when the Veil is thin versus the muted dense nothingness of a Templar’s spell purge, but it got too frustrating and they both gave up. 

Sketch nervously tries to angle his back against the wall, so he can keep them both in his sightline. 

One of the Templars takes a step forward, but to Sketch’s shock, he stumbles and collapses on the ground. He whips his head around, but the other Templar tips over soundlessly as well.

There’s a low whistle, and Sketch hurries to follow the familiar sound, trying not to become hysterical. Sure enough, he finds Leliana tucked away in an alley, carefully stowing her daggers. She’s bowless, but she’s far from unarmed. 

Sketch blinks. He hadn’t even seen her cut them. She’s _good,_ good in a way he feels embarrassed for not noticing sooner. No wonder now why Marjolaine is mentoring her.

After tugging the two men out of sight, Leliana quirks her head down the street, and they take off, sticking close to the shadows.

Sketch works his throat, mouth dry. “Are they—”

“No, just a little tired. Anything more and it would be too much trouble in the morning.” She giggles quietly. “What luck I decided for a moonlit stroll as well!”

Sketch slows to a halt, feet leaden. There’s a buzzing in his ears, and he finds it difficult to catch his breath.

Leliana stops, as well, guilt flashing over her features. “Sketch, I apologize, I know you wanted space—”

He waves her off, interrupting her, and leans his forehead against the cool stone of the alley. His eyes are hot, and to his mortification, they start to prickle as hot tears run down his face.

Sketch expects her to say something, but instead she rubs her cool hand firmly against his back until his breathing calms.

“‘m not usually like this,” he mutters, pulling upright but avoiding her eyes. “It’s just been a long night, and seeing two of them was a bit of a shock.”

“I know.”

“I can see Templars without fainting.”

“Sketch, I _know.”_ She smiles at him, face devoid of any pity. A sly look crosses over her eyes. “Perhaps I’m a little surprised, though. I would have thought you enjoyed a man in uniform.” 

Sketch laughs wetly. 

Leliana wets a handkerchief with a waterskin, and then passes the skin to him so he can take a deep chug, steadying himself. 

“Could you please cool it? Not frozen, just chilled,” she says, voice soft both in tone and volume. He complies, and Leliana gently rests the cold fabric over his eyes. Another burst of hot tears trickle out, and she’s equally, almost painfully tender as she dabs his eyes. “To reduce the swelling,” she explains.

“Are you calling me an ugly crier?” he croaks. She chuckles, and sweetly contradicts him. “If you ever tell anyone about this, or about me in general, please say I was stoic and collected.”

“I can keep out any mention of tears, although I must say I find them quite manly.” It’s not exactly what he asked, but whatever. 

He allows himself this small respite, before they invariably have to hurry back to the inn and leave in the middle of the night in case more Templars come calling. Foolishly, it’s almost like if he stays in this dark, quiet alley, he can pretend he’s not being boxed in wherever he goes.

But then he remembers that Tug is waiting for him, warm and concerned, and he steps away from Leliana with a sigh. “Let’s go.”

  
  


**iv.**

Sketch yanks open his door as soon as he hears the knock, ushering Tug inside. The top of Tug’s head is wet from mist, and his nose and ears are red from cold.

Tug good-naturedly suffers Sketch’s fussing, enveloping him in a warm hug as soon as his damp coat is hung by the door.

“How was it? Need to stop by Marjolaine’s? Here, sit by the desk.” Sketch herds Tug to his good chair by the writing desk. He flicks his fingers to the fire, nudging it gently to burn hotter, and pulls a second chair over. “It’s been too long, friend.”

“It’s been three weeks,” Tug argues, but he can’t get out the words without laughing. “I missed you too, mage. And no, I gave her the package, so we’re clear.”

Sketch hums and studies him greedily, seeing if he can catalogue any change to hair or new scuff marks. It’s a bit ridiculous, but it’s been ages since they’ve had to work on separate jobs. His apartment is modest, but clean, and more often than not Tug takes the guest cot rather than pay for his own space whenever they’re back in Val Royeaux.

Tug sniffs, and pokes around the messy desk, unearthing the vial of cologne he had given Sketch a year or so past. “You’re using it?” He sounds surprised.

“Of course!” Sketch rubs the back of his neck, where he placed a little this morning. “Normally I just try not to waste it.” Plus, it’s a bit embarrassing wearing it in Tug’s presence. Sketch likes it a little _too_ much. Aside from the fact it’s outrageously expensive, receiving no-strings gifts is rare for him. He wants to savor it as long as possible.

After a beat, Sketch mentally shakes himself and grabs a parchment wrapped package from off his desk. “You missed the solstice, but I saved you something.” He unwraps the paper and sets a peppermint candy stick in front of his friend.

“You shouldn’t have!” Tug says, in that tone of voice that means _Don’t you dare take it away._ His eyes are bright and firelight dances in them.

Sketch twists to lower the burn of the fire, he accidentally made it a touch too strong. “Well to be fair, I didn’t exactly have a great celebration myself. I was neck deep in a sewer while Leliana got to dance and flirt with nobles! She doesn’t believe me when I say she’s the favorite— _Don’t_ chew it, my gods, dwarf!” Sketch wails. Tug looks at him balefully, the confection already shattered in his mouth with a loud crunch while he was distracted. Sketch wags a finger at him. “You're lucky I got extra.” 

Tug munches on the one he already broke, and carefully balances the additional candy on the desk like it’s made of the finest crystal. Despite himself, Sketch snorts a laugh. 

He retrieves the special prize from the icebox, two oranges about the size of his fist, each. He rolls them against the desk, pulping them internally but being careful not to pierce the thick rind. Tug watches, intrigued, and sniffs at the sharp citrus scent that’s already starting to faintly fill the space. Using a (relatively) clean paper knife, he carefully cuts an incision in each fruit.

“Here.” Sketch passes Tug one of the oranges, feeling oddly shy, and shows him how to skewer the candy stick into the small hole. “Try it.”

Using the candy like a straw, Sketch sucks on it. At first there’s nothing, and then there's orange juice in his mouth, sweet and a little minty fresh where it mixes with the candy. After a beat, Tug tries as well, and Sketch is gifted the sight of Tug’s face turning surprised and elated.

“Good, right?” Sketch asks. Ugh, so transparent. But Tug just nods, completely sincere. Sketch weighs the words on his tongue for a couple moments before clearing his throat and continuing. “Haven’t done this in nearly two decades.”

Sketch refuses to look at Tug or shift nervously in his chair. They don’t _do_ this, share stories about their childhood. Tug could tell him his parents were dwarves, and Sketch wouldn’t trust it was the truth.

Tug squeezes his orange, turning it carefully in his hand. “My sister used to make me rock candy on my birthday.”

He can’t help but look at Tug now, study his face. But he’s sincere, face open and warm. 

“Hey,” Tug says, soft in the quiet of the room. Tug leans forward, giving him a sweet, citrus-bright kiss. 

Sketch is more than willing to give one back.

  
  


**v.**

It’s stupid. Sketch is used to doing dumb, stupid shit to get the job done, but it’s not like they’re even _on_ a job.

Leliana and Marjolaine aren’t even there, they’re off snickering and playing around in the Court in ways that exhaust Sketch, and Tug doesn’t even bother to pretend to care about. 

It was supposed to be a simple, quiet night on the town, just the two of them. Tug likes to keep things private, and while the women _must_ know they’ve been sleeping together for a while now, the four of them all pretend to be ignorant. Sketch doesn’t mind. He has fun listening to Tug makeup bullshit about the wives and husbands he’s bedding, each story more crass and unbelievable than the last. Even away from Marjolaine’s calculating eyes and Leliana’s gossipy smirking, Tug is not one to flaunt their relationship in public. 

Sketch is a bit thankful for it, actually. He gets prickly under the attention of others, especially strangers, and loves being able to relax in Tug’s bed at the end of a long day, taking advantage of the short time to ply him with casual little touches. Tonight was supposed to be something fun, shaking up their normal routine and stretching their legs rather than lazing around on their days off.

Sketch knows there's something in Tug’s past, something that makes him tense and uncomfortable when people pick at his past or current relationships. But they’ve known each other for years now, and there’s no reason to rush a conversation now. He’ll wait until Tug is ready, if he ever is.

But a “quiet night on the town” turned into “I heard there was this great tavern” which of _course_ turned into “fuck we’re in the middle of a massive bar fight.”

Sketch isn’t sure who threw the first punch, but when a human jostles him from behind as they try to slip out the door, Tug slams the man in the center of his chest, a growl ripping from his throat. Tug is pulled into the fray, and for a heart-stopping moment, he gets pulled under.

He’s sturdy, but even dwarves can get trampled. Anxiety ratcheting his pulse loud and erratic in his eardrums, Sketch risks a mind blast to clear a path to his friend. While people are still blinking in confusion, dazed, Sketch grabs Tug by the armpits and yanks him out of the establishment. He’s reminded, suddenly, of the night they first met, except now he’s the one dragging an unruly companion out the door.

Halfway back to the inn, Tug stumbles and sucks in a short, painful breath. Sketch glances and finally notices Tug’s left arm hung limply at his side, and bites back a curse. They hurry the rest of the way back to their room, but take a winding path back. Just his luck if the patron complained about the blast and sent a Templar sniffing after them.

Panic and adrenaline fade, replaced instead by bitter anger. Sketch clenches his jaw and forcefully makes Tug sit on the bed, refusing to meet his eyes. It was only a little bar fight; if they just left without hitting back, they wouldn’t be in this mess. He tells Tug as much, weaving in some more colorful word choice as he inspects Tug’s dislocated shoulder. There’s a bruise high on his temple, but other than a couple of scrapes, he’s otherwise in one piece. Careless. Tug should _know_ how easy it is to switch from dependable to disposable.

“Hey. It’s my job,” Tug pants. Sketch holds his arm steady, and then yanks the shoulder back into the socket, soothing the tenderness with a healing from his palm. He’s too pissed to respond, but Tug tries to meet his eyes, teeth clenched but voice gentle. “I take the hits coming your way.”

“And it’s my job to patch you back up again after, so stop moving or I’ll knock you out,” he grouses. Tug chuckles weakly and lays down on the bed obediently. It’s difficult, healing Tug. He has to pour more magic in the spell than, say, Leliana. She might be of lighter frame, but she’s moldable and bends where others might break. Last time she rolled an ankle miscalculating a landing, it only took Sketch about five minutes to heal the damage and reduce the swelling.

He concentrates on his work, letting his focus carry him through any quiet tension. He's just about done wrapping the shoulder when Tug clears his throat.

“A little bird told me the Game might be taking us on a little trip.” 

Sketch brightens a bit. “Truly?” Thank the gods for Leliana, she’s the best at secreting out Marjolaine’s next plans.

“Down to Denerim.”

Well, fuck that. Sketch wilts, and Tug runs a finger over the back of his hand consolingly. Orlais has, hm, a bit of an open secret policy to apostates. They don’t like them, obviously, and being an elf doesn’t make it much better, but Fereldens are a bit too straight forward and intense for his taste. As long as he doesn’t make much of a fuss, Marjolaine’s contacts are enough to keep most Templars looking the other direction. Magic is to serve mankind and all that, but _this_ particular mage can serve _that_ particular duke for only a sovereign or two, so _what exactly do you need stolen?_ and so on. If he so much as casts an unsubtle hand warming spell in Denerim, he’ll get chucked into the closest Circle and never get let out.

But then again, there’s been a bit of a dry spell this season and they could use the extra money.

Tug clasps both of his hands and pulls them up, kissing Sketch delicately on his knuckles. He then kneads them, massaging out the stiffness that settles in when he doesn't control his magic usage.

“It’ll be good,” Tug continues, letting his lips drag ticklishly over his fingers. “Apparently Fereldens have this horse stew that’s to die for.” Sketch rolls his eyes to hide the smile that tugs at the corner of his mouth, requesting to be seen. “Hey, don’t make that face. Bullying Fereldens is evergreen fun. It’s the best part about being Orlesian.”

Sketch looks away as if he’s still upset, although his anger and tension is starting to bleed away. “Are we Orlesian?”

“Why not.” He shrugs. “We could always fuck off somewhere else.”

Sketch tries not to let those words burn a warm hole in his chest. It’s not the first time they’ve… discussed alternate plans. Nothing’s ever stuck, not even in playful pillowtalk. Marjolaine runs a good crew. A fully dependable one at present. Sketch likes the abstract idea of a future where he’s not being slashed or shot for a job, but neither of them exactly have any non-criminal skills. And even if Sketch goes to Tevinter to escape the looming threat of the Circles, they’d have to deal with being an elf and a dwarf in not exactly the most welcoming of cities.

Part of him hates being a stone around Tug’s chest, that Tug could travel wherever he wants if he wasn’t partnered with a mage; another part of him is thrilled to hang possessively there. It’s not that they don’t have other priorities, but sometimes when Tug looks at him, when he checks on him quietly with a light touch to his inner wrist, Sketch knows that he comes first. It’s dizzying. 

Sketch softly pulls their joined hands back to his own face, nudging them until Tug gets the hint and lets go with his right hand to cup his jaw. His calluses are a bit rough against his skin, but his palm is warm and dry.

Ugly, embarrassing words threaten to spill out from his throat. He’s not good with romance, neither of them are, but for a moment Sketch wishes they had that type of language between them. He wants to beg Tug to be more careful, to know that even Sketch has his limits when it comes to healing. That he has no goal, no motivation in this life other than keeping this thing between them alive, keeping them both alive.

But instead he turns his head, kissing the inside of Tug’s wrist. For Marjolaine to consider going all the way that far south, it must come with a heavy coin purse.

“I’ll be fine,” he says, basking in the warm glow of Tug’s smile.

“Yes,” Tug replies. “You will.”

**Author's Note:**

> and then everything else happens as canon :( 
> 
> instead of writing this as a 4+1 structured fic, in my head i kept muttering “five short graybles” over and over like it’s 2012. yes there is an undercurrent theme that connects these snapshots. do with that information what you will or try to guess it. in case you haven’t noticed, I'm weird. I’m a weirdo. have you ever seen me without this stupid hat on?
> 
> anyways I hope you like, even if it made me a little sad to write it :)


End file.
